


Of a Chef and His Dishwasher

by Evavia



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poor Bilbo, Slow Build, Thorin Is an Idiot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:55:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4844942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evavia/pseuds/Evavia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo unwillingly ends up working as a dishwasher - which wouldn't be that bad, after all, his co-workers all seem to be very nice. That is, with one exception - how can he and Thorin ever get along?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of a Chef and His Dishwasher

**Author's Note:**

> New story! Hope you'll like it. :)

_But you must admit that it’s quite ridiculous for a boy to work as a maid,_ his boss had said with an amused smile, _It’ll be much better for you in the kitchen, the employees there are nice fellows – well, at least most of them. And have I mentioned you’d be paid by hour? I’m sure you’ll learn to love it soon!_

And that’s how Bilbo ended up working as a dishwasher. Unwillingly, mind you. With all due respect, he would just _love_ to tell his employer off, tell him exactly how his job certainly wasn’t ridiculous and hold onto it like grim death. But he needed the money and therefore was forced to hold his tongue and do as he was said.

It wasn’t like Bilbo had loved his job that much, if at all. After all there wasn’t anything thrilling about cleaning toilets (moreover not his own), getting rid of hair scattered throughout the whole bathroom and again, not his own.

No, that wasn’t the reason. The reason of his distaste were the rumours about the kitchen. He’d heard it from many maids already – how the work was terrible and nobody had lasted there more than a day since the permanent employee had fallen ill. Apparently the people there were changing rather quickly. No wonder Bilbo’s turn had finally come.

The first day of his work in the kitchen had come sooner than Bilbo would like to – the very next day, to be exact. But at least there was something better than at his previous post – and he hadn’t even started yet! His shift began at eleven o’clock, instead of eight, which meant one thing – more sleep.

But when he walked towards the building of the four-star hotel, his eyes already catching sight of the restaurant, his stomach gave an ugly twist, his insides clenching in nervousness. After less than two weeks of being a maid he had been forced to switch into something else.

Of course, he had been told that it was much simpler, that the only thing he was going to do was to put dishes in and out the dishwasher and sometimes he might be asked to peel onions or clean lettuce. But even the simplest tasks seem difficult when you aren’t used to them, especially in a new place with new people . . .

The problem was that he had never been very sociable – yes, other people always seemed to like him and how he had managed to achieve that was beyond Bilbo – but he felt so tense every time while being introduced to someone, anyone, and it usually took him long to relax around strangers. He was mainly afraid that they wouldn’t find any suitable topic for chat, awkward silence would fall upon them and everyone would find Bilbo useless, incapable of any kind of social interaction.

He once again remembered Balin’s words – that _the employees are nice fellows – well, at least most of them._ He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what exactly he had meant by it. When he reached the door at last, the first person he saw was a waiter, as expected. Well, _two of them_ , when Bilbo noticed a tall figure on the other side of the room. Upon closer inspection he had also noticed a sign behind the other waiter proclaiming _Breakfast lounge_ above a door obviously leading to the said lounge.

Both of them were wearing elegant black suits with bowties and waistcoats, a nice contrast with the beige walls surrounding them. It took the waiters a while to notice him, being too busy putting down the chairs from the tables. There weren’t any guests yet – Bilbo made sure to arrive before the opening hours. ‘Oi, you must be Bilbo! Welcome here with us! My name’s Dori and these two rascals are Fíli and – where is Kíli?’

The one who Dori had referred to as Fíli, a blond who seemed to be around Bilbo’s age, smirked at him and smoothed folds on a nearby tablecloth slowly.

‘He’s in the kitchen, speaking with uncle probably.’

‘Oh, really? And how am I supposed to believe that he isn’t smoking somewhere at the back again?’

Right after that comment a dark haired boy walked out a door behind the bar. He could have been about two years younger than Fíli, Bilbo guessed. _That must be Kíli,_ Bilbo thought. Kíli was now wearing a slightly hurt expression, the pout being the most outstanding part of his face.

‘By Mahal, Dori, what made you think so low of me?’ he sighed dramatically while Dori just rolled his eyes as if things like these happened often. Which probably did.

‘Uh, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’

All faces turned towards his direction. Kíli seemed a bit shocked to see him, if someone asked Bilbo, as if he hadn’t noticed him before. But his wide-eyed expression quickly changed into something more mischievous and his face spread into a grin. Something about the boy made Bilbo expect some kind of an unpleasant prank.

‘If this isn’t Master Boggins!’

‘Actually, it’s Baggi-‘

‘So, you’re going to be our new dishwasher, right? Good luck, uncle’s in quite a foul mood today . . .’

He wasn’t certain whether he wanted to find out himself. Quite frankly, the only thing he wanted to do was to go home, and quickly. But unfortunately it was quite late for thoughts like that. He wasn’t that kind of jerk after all.

He wisely chose to ignore the sentence about angry uncle and turned his attention back to Dori.

‘I should probably head off to the kitchen . . . only, I don’t know where it is, so, uh, where is it?’

‘Oh, sorry! We’re just keeping you, aren’t we? Come, come, it’s just here . . .’

He grabbed Bilbo by his sleeve and led him to the swinging door behind the bar, where Kíli had appeared from just a moment ago. When Bilbo turned his head to see Kíli and Fíli again, both of their faces were spread into grins. It wasn’t really hard to deduce the boys were brothers, even despite their different appearances.

The kitchen wasn’t as large as he’d expected – on the contrary, it was quite small, if Bilbo could judge, with his lack of experience of kitchens and all. It was all white and shiny, a fridge bar filled with several kinds of wine on his right, a small table surrounded by chairs on the other side. He could see a small window for dishes opposite of him, already overflowing with dirty cups and plates.

How did they get there? The restaurant hadn’t even been open and yet there were already things to do. Maybe they hadn’t managed to clean them after breakfast . . . Needless to say, Bilbo wasn’t satisfied.

The kitchen itself, where he expected to find the cooks, bend above cookers, preparing some food, was hidden from his view. He just needed to take a few steps forward and turn around a little . . .

When he finally realized that the weight on his elbow where Dori had been holding him had been gone, Bilbo gulped. He had to introduce himself on his own then. Alright. Maybe they would take pity on him once they have discovered how awkward he was. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it made it worse. Bilbo wondered which possibility would apply to the boy’s in-a-foul-mood-uncle. Hopefully the first.

They didn’t seem to notice him at first, three cooks turned away from him, deeply engrossed in their work. Two cooks who stood further away from Bilbo were discussing something, probably meal an enormous copper pot in front of them was filled with, if the ardent pointing of the red-headed round cook was anything to go by.

The ginger was everything Bilbo thought a cook would look like, at least from behind. But before he could focus on the other figure, someone cleared their throat.

He followed the sound with his gaze and when his eyes met a pair of azure ones, slightly narrowed, he gulped – _This must be the uncle then._ ‘Um, hello,’ he tried to sound confident and perhaps even pleasant, but to his disdain his voice came out more like a squeak. So apparently his voice didn’t obey and his eyes neither, looking anywhere but into those unnerving eyes. Was it even possible to have this shade of blue? Perhaps the man was wearing contact lenses . . .

‘So, this is the dishwasher.’ Well, obviously _._ ‘He looks more like a maid to me.’

And what was he supposed to say to something like that? _Hello rude, nice to meet you too?_ Pity that he was only able to say that inside his head, surely it would erase that stupid smug expression from that stupid grumpy face. Rolling his eyes felt like the most tempting idea, right after punching the guy in the face.

But the only thing he managed to do was stare dumbly. Luckily the other two cooks saw fit to safe him from that horrendous person at last, never mind his very obvious good looks.

‘Hello! Don’t mind him, laddie. I’m Bombur and this one,’ the redhead – Bombur – tossed his head to the second man, ‘is Dwalin.’

The said guy only nodded his head in Bilbo’s direction and then apparently decided to pay him no more attention, for he turned around and continued preparing – well, what he was preparing quite escaped Bilbo. What escaped him not was the man himself – he seemed even taller than the boys’ uncle (who didn’t even bother to introduce himself), which was quite something, and his white work clothes stretched over well-build muscles.

Let’s say that he wouldn’t like to get on Dwalin’s bad side. It was enough that the not-civilized-enough-to-introduce-himself seemed to have kind of a problem with him.

Bombur probably guessed some of his thoughts, for he shot the other cook half amused, half exasperated look.

‘And this very pleasant human being is Thorin. Maybe you have already met his two nephews, Fíli and Kíli.’

Bilbo laughed at the sarcastic name – which only made Thorin scowl more – and continued in the conversation. Something about Bombur – well, about all of them – made him feel at ease. He tore his eyes away from Bombut only to be met with Thorin’s murderous glare. Okay, maybe not all of them.

When Bilbo began to wonder whether he shouldn’t perhaps do something, which was after all the reason he was there, Thorin glanced away from the pot he had been looking after, eyes again locking with Bilbo. ‘Bombur, show the dishwasher how things work around here,’ he commanded.

_Oh, so he’s the boss here. Great._

Next thing he realized was being led swiftly to a small room connected with the kitchen, to a dishwasher, which seemed to be the only one in there. Bilbo let out a relieved sigh – at least he wouldn’t be forced to run around from one machine to another like a fool.

‘It’s really simple, you see, you just lift the door,’ he opened the door of the machine, ‘then put the dishes in and finally close it. See the little light there? When it turns green, you can slide the dishes out and put them where they belong. Now let me show you . . .’

Within a few moments he explained him where to tidy all those cups and plates and many other away. Bilbo just hoped he would remember everything correctly. Every now and then anxious thoughts would cross his mind – like if he screwed anything up, the others would stop being so nice.

But Bilbo tried not to think negatively. Instead he followed Bombur’s instructions and occasionally ask a question or two, which seemed to annoy Thorin greatly. Maybe he had finally understood the reason of former employees not lasting more than a day, when he’d asked a question again and Thorin turned to him, not even bothering to hide his irritated glare – or perhaps he did that on purpose, Bilbo wouldn’t be surprised.

‘How many times will I have to say that those bowls belong to the cupboard below the second cooker?’

He pretended not to notice the annoyed look Thorin gave him and put the bowls in the right place. This was everything he had feared. But although his eyes stung, he would not give Thorin the satisfaction. Maybe he would stop when he would see it had no effect on Bilbo. On his way back to the dishwasher he had risked a glance at Thorin, only to see his turned back and dark hair in a messy bun.

How it was possible that Thorin was related to Fíli and Kíli, the cheerful waiters, was beyond his mind . . .

But when he didn’t mind Thorin and his rude behaviour, he surprisingly found the job quite enjoyable – probably because he had finally understood how to do this and that. Anyway, the reason didn’t seem so important to him.

He had peeled only one bucket of onions that day. Fíli and Kíli, along with Dori, had appeared several times during the day – to settle orders, deliver meals or simply chat with the cooks and even with Bilbo when the restaurant had been empty – which often happened between lunch and dinner, according to what Fíli and Kíli said.

They also claimed Bilbo to be lucky – by their words he could have peeled as well potatoes and garlic. The only thing Bilbo could do was glare at them, for he had no desire Thorin to hear them and give him more tasks or even find himself another reason to glare, thank you very much. He certainly didn’t have to have everything.

The day was passing in a desperately slow pace. Maybe it was because never before he had worked a twelve-hour shift, or perhaps because he could barely feel his feet, from all the standing and never sitting down – there were chairs to rest, of course, but Bilbo didn’t want the others to think him lazy. He glanced down at his shoes, which was not exactly his most comfortable pair.

_Not a good idea at all, to put on the first shoes you see._ Maybe the next day some old crocs would do . . .

He’d spent the whole day doing dishes, some manually since the washing machine wasn’t able to do some particularly dirty baking trays, frying pans and such. He had also peeled the onions – with the promise that potatoes were awaiting him the next day. Another thing on his imaginary list of tasks was mopping – corridor and kitchen every day, changing rooms on Thursdays and walk-in freezer boxes on Sundays . . .

It was Wednesday, so no extra mopping. Another good thing was that he was allowed to wipe the corridor during the day – actually it should be done at the end of the shift, but probably nobody stuck to it. Bilbo was glad for it – it wasn’t like he’d be happy to finish his job even later.

Well, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad . . .

‘Are you going to eat something?’ Fíli asked him sometime in the evening, ‘It’s supposed to be for lunch, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have it now!’

_Oh,_ the meal. Dwalin explained to him earlier that day the thing with lunches. Every day the cooks prepared food intended only for employees, at a bargain price of course. The thing was that he didn’t want to eat in front of the others. But he also knew that it would sound ridiculous if he’d say that out loud. So he’d found another way.

‘Oh, well, I have some snacks and I need to make a call anyway, so I’m going to retire to the changing rooms for a while, that is if you don’t mind,’ he explained in haste, not wanting to be interrupted.

When nobody said a word, he took it as a permission and walked away. He wasn’t even hungry, to be honest. Which was quite weird, because Bilbo had always been very fond of good food, sometimes even finishing lunch in the school cafeteria after his friend, whose favourite meals definitively didn’t consist of vegetables.

Maybe he was just nervous. He had never been able to eat while being nervous, found it difficult to swallow. So it didn’t really surprise him when half of his baguette laid forgotten in his bag. It only made him feel more nervous. _Great._

He had never looked forward to be at home so much before. The pain in his feet had become nearly unbearable and he could only shift his weight from one foot to another in an attempt to ease the pain. So you can imagine his joy when the kitchen stopped cooking and Bombur, Dwalin and Thorin started cleaning up.

Bilbo mentally counted his remaining tasks – finish the dishes, clean up the three sinks in his area, tidy the dishes away, take out the garbage, turn off the dishwasher and – as the icing on the cake – mop the kitchen’s floor.

And so he put the last dishes in the dishwasher and in the meantime washed the sinks. He was about to tidy the dishes away and drain the dishwasher, when he noticed the missing rubbish. _Maybe it_ ’ _not actually that bad,_ Bilbo thought gratefully, a small smile tugging at his lips. He hadn’t noticed a pair of blue eyes watching him carefully.

Eventually he had been distracted from his consideration by Dwalin’s low grumbling, ’How will ya get ‘ome?’

‘Well, I thought about taking a bus since I don’t have a car . . . ’

’No way. A young lad like ya won’t roam da streets alone. I’m takin’ ya home.’

’No, no, no, that won’t be necessary -’

One look from Dwalin had been enough to shut him.

‘Well . . . okay, thank you.’

And so they all (except Bilbo) left for the changing rooms while Bilbo prepared the mopping equipment and got started. He was exhausted, but at the same time filled with determination to finish as soon as possible. After a few minutes he had done it. When he thought back to about twelve hours ago, it seemed like many days had passed since that time. But he guessed once he’d get used to it.

On the way from the kitchen and through the restaurant he’d met Bombur and Dori, chatting quietly, with Bombur sitting in one of the chairs and Dori absently counting the earned money. Thorin with the boys had probably already gone home.

With one last wave and a cheery good bye, Bilbo found himself standing outside and soon spotting Dwalin, who had waited for him in his car as agreed. And then he took Bilbo home. They didn’t talk much, if at all – Dwalin didn’t seem like the type for a small talk, which Bilbo appreciated since he wasn’t forced to keep a conversation.

So not even Dwalin was that bad – on the contrary, he had given him a ride home!

Later that night, when Bilbo threw himself on the bed, after a refreshing shower and proper meal, he had decided – he would come to work the next day and the day after as well and break the nonsensical thing! He couldn’t wait to see Thorin’s expression when he saw him again . . .

**Author's Note:**

> If there are any errors, please let me know. ;)
> 
> Unfortunately I won't be able to update for a long time - I broke my arm during a dancing lesson, plus I am travelling abroad, so I apologize in advance for a late update...


End file.
